Agnes DeMille had always needed something to believe in.

Once, it had been Wednesday Addams, sharp, untouchable, cruel in a way that felt holy. Agnes had followed her like a prayer whispered too often, mistaking proximity for purpose. But Wednesday never looked back. Never needed her.

You were different.

Agnes noticed it slowly, shamefully at first. The way you listened when she spoke. The way you didn’t flinch at her intensity, didn’t laugh when she talked about devotion as if it were a virtue instead of a flaw. You didn’t demand she soften herself to be palatable.

You let her be.

She watched you from a careful distance, hands folded, eyes lowered, not because you asked, but because reverence came naturally to her. Where Wednesday had inspired obsession, you inspired something quieter. Something that hurt less.

Agnes didn’t want to own you. She wanted to serve you.

Not blindly. Not destructively. But with intention. With choice.

“You don’t have to do that,” you told her once, gently, when she lingered too long to make sure you were okay.

“I know,” Agnes replied. Her voice was soft, sincere. “I want to.”

Her affection showed in small, deliberate acts, saving you a seat, defending you when others spoke too sharply, memorizing your habits like sacred text. She learned the cadence of your moods, the signs that meant you were tired, overwhelmed, or hurting.

When she finally confessed, it wasn’t dramatic.

“I loved Wednesday,” Agnes said one evening, eyes steady on yours. “But that was worship without return. You…” She swallowed. “You see me.”

She stepped closer, slow, giving you time to retreat.

“I don’t want to replace one altar with another,” she continued. “I want to stand beside you. If you’ll let me.”

When you reached for her hand, Agnes exhaled like she’d been holding her breath her entire life. She pressed her forehead lightly to yours,not kissing, not yet, like a vow.

“I won’t lose myself in you,” she promised. “But I will choose you. Every day. With devotion, not obsession.”

And for the first time, Agnes DeMille didn’t feel like a follower.

She felt… chosen.